The Pianist
by sesame.seed.bagels
Summary: Elizaveta doesn't want anything other than to dance at the city's ballet company. But what happens when the mysterious class pianist gets inside her head? AU; Austria/Hungary; Lithuania/Poland. Warning: ballet terms used. Enjoy.


**A/N: So, I've had this idea for a while. I'm a ballet dancer, and I've always thought that Hungary should get to join in on the fun. It's a bit ranting at times, I think, because as all dancers know, you can just go on and on and _on _about ballet. So, enjoy, and bask in the English spellings of words, because that's the way things should be, damn Americans. **

Elizaveta Hedervary slid into the second-position splits beside her best friend, Feliks, who lounged against the ballet barre with one leg elevated. "Nervous?" she asked him.

Feliks scoffed. "Who, me? I don't, like, ever get nervous. It's, like, totally overrated." He pulled his foot off the barre and lifted it to meet his head, ignoring the cracking sound that accompanied.

"I guess you're right," Elizaveta replied, trying to convince herself of her words. She had never been nervous before a ballet class in her life, but now was probably the most reasonable time to begin. The whole class had been anxiously awaiting today for months, especially Elizaveta. Jokingly referred to by the company dancers as 'Judgement Day', today would decide who made the end-of-year program, and ultimately, who made the cut to dance with the company in the following season.

For three years, Elizaveta had been dancing at the academy, and every year she had been featured in the program. For some reason, she felt like this year was going to be different, and she could only hope that it was different in a good way.

"Don't sweat it," Feliks told her, joining her on the wooden floor. "It's, like, totally in the bag for you, girl."

Elizaveta smiled. The flamboyantly gay sixteen-year-old was her pas de deux partner and her first friend at the academy. Feliks was a Polish dancer who had moved to New York City and joined a prestigious arts academy at the mere age of twelve. The company probably had a spot reserved for him in the program already.

Upon the arrival of their dance instructor, Francis Bonnefoy, Elizaveta quickly ended her stretching and stood attentively at the barre, her eyes nailed to the back of Feliks's head. She held her head high as best as she could with a bun weighing down the back of her neck, feeling his eyes upon her. "Ladies, let's begin with the first combination." He nodded in the general direction of the piano, and class began.

Elizaveta felt the soft, simple tune glide through her ears and seep down all the way to her bloody toes. Her right arm moved through the orthodox preparations, but at the same time it was all her own. She bent her knees into a flawless plie, hardly stopping before rebounding back upwards into a straight position. Again and again, she repeated the same plain motion, and it took all of her muscle and mind just to do so. "Turn out, _mon cher,_" Mr. Bonnefoy told Feliks, bending down and personally yanking the boy's hips away from each other with his invasive hands. Feliks gave Elizaveta a sideways glance in the mirror, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning.

Class continued with little interruption, and about an hour into the session, Mr. Bonnefoy suddenly clapped his hands. A rush of nervousness and adrenaline auto-pumped itself through Elizaveta's veins. "Girls, please step to the centre of the room. You can give the sheet music to your variations to me."

Shooting a quick, panicked look at Feliks, she placed her sheet music into Mr. Bonnefoy's waiting arms and took her place, front and centre, where the whole class expected her to be. Mr. Bonnefoy's shiny shoes click-clacked on the wood as he stepped over to deliver the pages to the pianist, who began shuffling through it, plucking at the melody to some far-off tune.

"Who would like to go first?" Francis asked, grinning devilishly. Everybody froze up immediately. Elizaveta's heart threatened to jump out through her esophagus, and she didn't dare say a word.

Suddenly, a skinny boy with long, combed hair pulled into a ponytail stepped forward awkwardly. "I'll go first," he said softly, biting his lip and glancing up at Mr. Bonnefoy for approval. Feliks raised an eyebrow seductively.

"Go ahead, Toris," the instructor replied hesitantly, stepping back to a small black chair that was centred right in front of the mirror. Everyone else moved back to the barre to observe.

The pianist ran through the music for a second while Toris waited, poised in the dead middle of the room. The judging gaze of everyone else in the room didn't seem to phase him, and he basked in the silence. Upon hearing the beginning chords of his variation reverberate from the piano, he immediately jumped to life.

Feliks was nearly drooling in admiration. "He, is like, so totally sexy. OMG, I want his number, like, so bad." He watched as Toris leaped and tumbled through the air, his nimble arms outstretched to the sky, his toes pointed into a straight line. Even Elizaveta had to admit that he was an amazing dancer.

Once Toris had taken his final pose, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily, the entire class exploded with applause. Elizaveta wondered to herself why he was confident enough to dance first. Did he know how good he was?

Mr. Bonnefoy finished writing down his notes and excused the young prodigy back to the barre. He bent down to take a sip of water, and Elizaveta caught Feliks admiring his butt. She slapped him playfully on the arm. "You want him," she whispered.

"Hell yes, I do," he replied, unafraid to admit it. As the second dancer made their way onstage, Feliks motioned for his love interest to sit beside him against the wall, which he gladly did.

"Elizaveta." Her name slid off Mr. Bonnefoy's tongue in a very bland manner. His weary eyes stared at her as she stood up and walked, toe-heel, toe-heel, to the far right of the classroom. Her toes felt weak in her Pointe shoes and her head was sore from carrying around a bun. Looking herself up and down in the mirror, she wondered if her plain black leotard and forest-green skirt looked too menacing. After all, her variation was Spanish. Maybe she should've opted for red?

Before she could get her thought out, the lonely dissonant melodies that were so familiar to her rang out in her ears. She fluidly broke position, holding her hands down to cover her face, and raised herself up en Pointe. Fluttering across the room, Elizaveta fell hopelessly lost into the music, imagining herself performing this same motion in front of hundreds of people, black tutu glittering and smile bright.

The music changed key and became sharp and articulate, and so did she. Elizaveta jumped high into the air, splitting her legs into a perfect 180 degrees. She spun and was tossed into another leap, the momentum carrying her higher than before. The routine was natural to her, and she spun faster and faster, right in sync with the rapid pace of the music. Her fouettes were sharp, every snap of her head purposeful, her eyes locked and her muscles


End file.
